I tried to get the morning unfold my way,
sleep
then sleep some more
and then, if possible, mix some slumber into the sleep
just to kill the monotony of... sleep.
She broke down the door
tore away the blankets
and raped my peace of mind and body.
She even used my toothbrush,
after.
Quiet.
The Ordeal over.
A bed for one imprisoning two,
sometimes side by side
switching places,
sometimes not
switching places too,
the ordeal raising its menacing head with Stymphalian breath
and singing the passing minutes with Larkian trill
invariably copy’n’pasting itself in a variety of varieties
as it moved back into Quiet
then into Ordeal
then into... and that toothbrush refreshing the luster to your teeth
just in time for another crunch, chop, cleave,
slash, slit, slice,
kiss...
I breathed heavily,
suffocating on chunks of breast
following on the traces of chunks of thigh, lip, nipple
you generously fed my beast with
cooing all the way into insanity
mine
yours
ours
the beauty of awakening to life stored in between skin and flesh
mine
yours
ours,
the palette and the colors all yours.
I allowed myself a moment’s respite,
just enough to whisper in your ear...
you,
the editor
of my mornings.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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"the editor/of my mornings." What a great phrase. I do it too but you have written about it with such wonderful imagery and personification. You held my interest all the way through with this and, to be quite honest, I wish I had written something similar. The image of the editor is something to tuck away for when I am torturing myself on difficult mornings.
Enjoyed your write.
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I love the reference to the man eating pets of Ares and the imagery.
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like your line breaks and flow. interesting imagery. nice job.
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beautiful poetry, i loved the flow of this piece, take care
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oh the jocundity of your wit robs breath.
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my friend, your name does you so much justified injustice - you are the sanest person around, and i delight in your succint, penetrating comments. thank you.
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your most welcome and glad we can trade jabs with the shepard without disturbing too many sheep.
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I can hear this birds singing in your mornings. What a melody I can hear within your lines where Stymphalian breath compete with Larkian trill . The words you chose, pictures and the style (yeah, I know you do not like to talk of styles... but... still
). With your ending lines where you put only one word per line it is easy to feel this very special time of emotions like a broken breathe.
Your pen poured out a new masterpiece, once again, poet.
~Sonja~
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masterpiece is in the eye of the beholder... though i enthusiastically agree
thank you my beautiful friend
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